


Taste

by shhhhhhhhhhhhh



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Caught in the Act, F/F, Genderswap, Harold.... they're lesbians, Post-Apocalypse, all angels and demons are trans send tweet, blame everything on the crepes, gratuitous oral, mild food kink, more accurately its vaguely implied food kink
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-28
Updated: 2019-06-28
Packaged: 2020-05-28 09:35:29
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,813
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19391395
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/shhhhhhhhhhhhh/pseuds/shhhhhhhhhhhhh
Summary: Aziraphale needs to work on her impulse control during brunch.Or, maybe not.





	Taste

**Author's Note:**

> I wrote this because I have strong feelings about Haruki Murakami's "Kafka on the Shore." That's it, that's the only reason. I cannot tell a lie.

“Surely, dear, it isn’t!”

“It surely is!”

“I don’t _believe_ it.”

“ _Angel_.” Two scandalized syllables.

“I don’t!” Aziraphale was already helping herself to the unfinished portion of triple-stacked crepes (truly decadent, each separated by a thick layer of cream) on Crowley’s plate. “Death Of The Author aside, there merely isn’t _room_ for-”

“Room!” Crowley billows backward in her chair, arms windmilling into a space that had been occupied a few minutes prior by a huffy couple attempting to enjoy Sunday brunch, futilely, beside the pair’s debate. So engaged, neither angel nor demon had noticed the brunchers arrive, nor seen them leave without finishing their mimosas.

Aziraphale spears another forkful of crepe-cake. “Whatever you think of Murakami’s skills, dear, _Kafka_ really doesn’t have the _room_ for that kind of tertiary theme.”

“Tertiary!” This outburst draws silent ire from the few remaining brunchers of the late morning. “It was the bloody plot!”

A single mouthful of crepe remains on Crowley’s forgotten plate. Aziraphale considers it for a moment as Crowley launches into a literary anecdote arguing Murakami’s rendition of Colonel Sanders to be an archetype for internalized homophobia. 

The angel spears the bite on her fork and looks back up to her dear old friend. Perhaps it’s the bottomless mimosas the cafe has provided their table, but Aziraphale’s chest swells with a lush warmth at the sight.

Crowley pauses abruptly, confronted by the angel proffering the last bite of crepe in front of her face.

“Go on.” The angel waggles the fork a bit, creme dripping from its tines.

Aziraphale can feel Crowley hesitate behind her dark shades. Then Crowley seems to steel. The demon opens her mouth and welcomes the bite.

_Oh_ , Aziraphale realizes immediately, but much, much too late. _Oh, that was the wrong impulse to indulge._

Time seems to slow for the angel as Crowley’s tongue hits the fork first, capturing the last drip of cream before it falls. Her lips, thin but so agile, close around the end of the utensil. Aziraphale can feel the pressure of Crowley’s mouth as she pulls the bite off the fork, barely chews, swallows…

Crowley’s forked tongue darts out to clean the sugar from her lip. Her expression is sober and unreadable, smooth like the surface of her glasses.

Aziraphale realizes she is frozen in place, empty utensil hanging in the space between them. 

“Well.” Her celestial control returns with a Herculean effort, like Atlas hefting the world back to his shoulders. She returns her empty fork to her empty plate and places both hands in her lap, smiling warmly. “Shall we call this brunch a successful temptation?”

“I think,” Crowley leans back in her chair, legs splaying leisurely, “we better, before the waitstaff are tempted to do something a little more _my side_ of the road.”

“Your side?” The angel rises from her chair, adjusting her skirt and vest, “Aren’t we — the _same_ side, now?”

Crowley breezes over this, snapping the payment of their bill into existence. “Shall I give you a lift home, angel?”

Aziraphale’s breath catches, just a little, and her mind’s eye plays the image of Crowley’s tongue on loop.

“Oh my dear,” she says, just as airily, “it’s just a few blocks to the shop. And I rather fancy a stroll,” and she adds, a touch performative, “what with _your_ driving.”

Crowley smiles wanly. “As you like, angel,” she says.

* * *

Aziraphale doesn’t bother to flip her shop sign from ‘CLOSED’ as she whisks inside, locking the door behind her. She goes straight for the shop’s kitchenette, hunting for something hot and soothing to drink.

Or perhaps something cold? She’s feeling a bit warm in her layers, suddenly. Aziraphale unbuttons her vest and undoes her bowtie, hoping to invite a cooling draft. It’s not quite enough. Reluctantly, she removes her camelhair coat as well, delicately draping it over a chair.

Distraction drives her to shortcut. She stirs a spoon of honey into a mug of tea, neither of which had existed seconds prior. The steam hits her face as the honey dissolves. She thinks of Crowley’s mouth.

_No, no,_ she chastises herself. _Not that._

Aziraphale settles down with a book for the afternoon, retreating into the depths of the back room she reserves for her most prized collections. Curled into a chair with an original copy of _Kafka on the Shore_ , she flips through some of the scenes Crowley had argued about over brunch.

* * *

She’s read the same line seven times, each attempt punctuated by the visual of a forked tongue sliding between pink lips.

Delicate. 

Sugar-coated. 

Surely it would’ve tasted like cream? If Aziraphale had leaned in? If it had been her, and not the fork, between Crowley’s teeth?

The angel’s heavenly willpower can’t stop the thoughts now. Aziraphale thumps the book closed irreverently and fans herself with it. The back room is much too warm. 

She thinks about Crowley’s face after taking that bite, smooth as glass. Unreadable. 

She thinks about what it would be like to see that face screwed up in ecstasy. 

Undone. Blaspheming. 

Beneath her skirts she’s steadily becoming soaked. Would Crowley have tasted like hellfire and brimstone, beneath all that cream?

Carnal indulgence, if one asked Aziraphale, is no sin when pursued out of love. The angel is no stranger to mortal pleasures — humans are so desperately creative, truly, in their exploration of leisure, how can she not appreciate such a pure facet of God’s most prized creations? A pursuit of pleasure is a pursuit of life, a pursuit of pure existence, of loving the world as deeply and fully as one can.

But Aziraphale does not think of these things as she draws up her skirts, _Kafka_ abandoned on the side table, and sinks a hand beneath the fabric of her underwear. 

Her eyes flutter shut. Two fingers part her sodden lips. 

She’s only thinking of Crowley’s tongue. 

She starts slow. _Delicate_. The ache drives her knees apart, one hooking on the armrest of her cushy chair. She is splayed open, skirts hitched at the hip, underthings soaked through.

She thinks of Crowley’s eyes, beneath the glasses. Bright and earnest and vulnerable. What would they look like, staring up at her from the hem of her skirts? Would they be loving? Would they be _devious_?

Aziraphale strokes more insistently. 

Her knees spread wider and her head tips back against the cushion of the armchair. 

Distantly she can hear herself gasping as she drives her fingers deep within herself, curling into that blessed, glorious spot the way she wishes Crowley’s impossibly long fingers would.  Her free hand grips the other armrest as she tumbles toward a climax. Blasphemy perches on the tip of her tongue, but something else makes it’s way out instead.

“Oh, _Crowley_.” It’s a reverent breath.

She’s right on the edge, suddenly. Her knees jump right back together, trapping her hand between her thighs as she spasms around her fingers. She's dripping wet, aching, burning, stroking hard circles and diving deep, it’s altogether too _much_ and not _enough_ — 

Aziraphale positively keens as the climax takes her, driving through her core like a lightning bolt. She rides her fingers desperately through the aftershocks, ruined, electrified, and then melts like the honey in her long-forgotten mug of tea.

She opens her eyes, exhaling unsteadily, and stares up at the ceiling above.

A thump.

Aziraphale freezes. Eyes shift back down. Her mortal vessel feels as if its blood has been exchanged with ice.

At the entrance to the back room stands Crowley, limp-limbed and jaw slack. Her sunglasses have slid to perch precariously at the end of her nose. The wine bottle she’d brought has slipped from her fingers and now lies sadly on the floor, remarkably unbroken. 

Aziraphale’s fingers are still buried deep between her thighs. She can’t move and it feels as if her throat has closed up. Perhaps God Herself has finally lifted a hand of interference, preventing her from speaking — _don’t make this even worse than you’ve already cocked it up_.

Crowley makes a noise that sounds like it’s supposed to be words.

“Aaaahhhhhh,” her throat says, almost a hiss. “Awhh, I — You?”

Aziraphale’s mortification reanimates her vessel. She looks at the floor. She looks at the floor very hard. She can feel her cheeks burning. Possibly her whole body is on fire.

“Yes. So.” Slowly she extricates her hand, sticky and glistening, and tries to straighten her skirts as if she has any dignity left to preserve. “Well. I should. Ah.”

“Go?” Crowley’s voice is strangled, but Aziraphale can’t read the blasted expression on her face, with those _blasted_ sunglasses.

“Yes. I think.” Aziraphale continues to look everywhere but Crowley and stands briskly — wobbily, weak-kneed still, and slick between the thighs — “Go, I shall.”

Crowley doesn’t move. 

Head down, Aziraphale flees for the door.

Crowley catches her arm. “No,” she says, barely audible. “Wait.”

“No?” Aziraphale echoes, but can’t refuse, still mortified and overwhelmed.

“Please?” 

_Please?_ The angel is trembling.

Crowley removes her sunglasses carefully with her free hand. Aziraphale can’t help looking. She sees those eyes so rarely, so rarely sees them _see her._

And right now, Crowley is transfixed. Looking down at her as if she’s a frightened deer that will bolt with too sudden a movement.

The demon’s fingers, wrapped around her arm, slide down to her wrist. Lift the wrist up between them. Aziraphale’s unnecessary heart beats unnecessarily faster in her chest, and time hangs still again.

Crowley takes Aziraphale’s sticky fingers into her mouth.

A breath beats from the angel’s throat. Crowley’s eyes close, expression twisting with _rapture_ , and she slides her tongue to the base of Aziraphale’s fingers. She sucks them clean, painstakingly, cheeks hollowing. 

Now Aziraphale is definitely on fire. She _must_ be. Her head spins. She can barely comprehend what’s happening.

Crowley pulls Aziraphale’s fingers from her mouth with a crude slurp, eyes still squeezed shut. She presses Aziraphale’s knuckles gently against her lips.

“How long?” The words form against Aziraphale’s hand like a prayer.

How _long?_ Aziraphale feels she’s untethered to her body. Is this what dreaming feels like?

“Since. Since the church. The nazis.”

This knowledge seems to churn inside Crowley’s chest. “Seventy… nearly eighty _years!_ ”

“I didn’t think,” the angel babbles, “Never once believed — I didn’t ever expect you to _reciprocate_ , darling, never in six—”

Crowley’s eyes open then, halting her. Black slits have widened into diamonds against luminous gold. Aziraphale has never seen her eyes do that, not drunk, not sober, not —

Crowley bows, crushing her mouth to Aziraphale’s. Her hand tucks into the small of the angel’s back, pressing them flush. 

Aziraphale livens in a flash of desperate need. She curls both hands in the crest of Crowley’s hair and arches close, drawing Crowley into her mouth like a woman starved. The demon yelps in surprise and clings on for dear life.

Crowley tastes like sugar, and smoke, and lust, and wine, and — more _love_ than Aziraphale ever imagined a demon capable of containing, and it’s like a nectar designed for Aziraphale by the Divine Plan itself. 

She could taste it forever, to the end of the Universe and back again.

* * *

Now, the ineffable naturally have no need for breathing. Both angel and demon, in this case, adopted the practice first to blend with the mortal masses, and eventually continued out of an enjoyment of habit.

At this moment, it can be assumed that said habit is well forgotten.

* * *

Fingers curled hard into the curve of Aziraphale’s plump back end, Crowley regrets forgoing underwear beneath her leather pants.

Aziraphale is _greedy_ : tongue insistent in Crowley’s mouth, teeth rough with her bottom lip, hands grasping and sliding and untucking Crowley’s satin shirt to feel as much skin as possible. The angel's fingertips leave trails of sparks on Crowley's flesh, teasing her nipples pert, sending shivers down her spine.

Crowley has been engulfed in hellfire and earthly fire and has never felt so _aflame_. She presses the angel as close as possible. Any closer and surely, she thinks, _surely_ they would _fuse_.

Her angel (hers!) gasps and moans and sighs and the image of her pleasuring herself plays on loop behind Crowley’s closed eyes: Aziraphale plunging her fingers deep and moaning, no, _begging_ Crowley’s name — 

Crowley really regrets the leather pants.

The demon tears backward just enough to break the kiss. Aziraphale chases her upward, but Crowley leans out of reach.

“Angel,” it’s a breath. “Clothes. _Please_.”

“Oh.” Aziraphale has a palm to Crowley’s breast and a fist in her shirt. “Right. Of course. Silly me.” She disengages one hand to wave everything away, but Crowley catches it.

“No, I — let me.”

Aziraphale, impatiently: “Oh if you _must_ , but be quick! I want to _feel_ you.”

Crowley _aches_ at that. It is completely imperative the leather pants come off, but she wants Aziraphale spread open first.

First the shoes and discarded vest, then down the buttons of the blouse — a chaste kiss stolen beneath the angel’s ear — the shirt spread open, the skirt undone, the fabric drops to the floor to leave Aziraphale in a surprisingly lacy bra and sensible, very _soaked_ cotton undies.

The scent of her hits Crowley’s sensitive nose and tongue. Her mouth waters, her tongue splits into a fork, her teeth grow a little sharper, she forgets all about removing the leather pants. The demon drops to her knees to press her nose into the apex of Aziraphale’s thighs, nearly drooling.

Aziraphale’s knees threaten to buckle and she steadies herself with fistfuls of Crowley’s hair.

“ _Off_ , darling, off,” the angel is panting, “ _please_.”

Crowley obliges, as if she has a choice, and discards the ruined garment over her shoulder. The angel’s sex floods her senses in full, fogging her brain like the best drugs humankind has ever dreamed up, and she hikes the angel’s leg over her shoulder and dives nose-deep to taste.

Aziraphale properly cries out, trembling, as the demon’s forked tongue laps at the depths of her for the first time.

“ _Crowley_ my darling, yes!”

Crowley, yes, _indeed_. The demon swirls her tongue around the sensitive swell of Aziraphale’s clit, suckling, biting, drinking in the honey of her wetness as it drips down her chin. The angel bucks unsteadily into her mouth, clawing at her scalp for leverage. The pain of it should register, Crowley thinks distantly, but every scrape leaves raw, electric bliss in its wake.

Aziraphale tastes like everything Heaven should be and everything Hell isn’t. She’s a heady syrup of hedonistic abandon and unimaginable sweetness. She could drink it in every day, every night, for the rest of her timeless existence.

It doesn’t take long for Aziraphale’s keening encouragement to melt into incoherent syllables and moans climbing in pitch. 

Crowley plunges her tongue — lengthening a little, she needs the reach — deep into the angel’s cunt. In and out, up and down, in and out, fucking her and greedily lapping at the reward. 

Aziraphale’s knees quake, thighs trembling terribly, and Crowley is holding her steady with sheer force of will until the angel digs her nails into Crowley’s scalp and _clenches_ , crowing the demon’s name into every corner of the bookshop and possibly beyond into neighboring establishments.

The sound vibrates Crowley’s aching core with an unearthly resonance.

Crowley comes, untouched, leather pants be damned.

* * *

It is hours, or perhaps days, later that they finally lay sprawled on a conjuring of rugs and blankets on the back room floor, bare and sweaty and _sated_ for the first time in agonizing millennia.

They are a tangled puddle of ineffable limbs, feathered and otherwise. Crowley has tucked herself into the cradle of Aziraphale’s throat. The angel presses lazy, breathy kisses into her hair and fiddles distantly with the tiny feathers at the root of Crowley’s wings.

“How long?” Aziraphale echoes the demon’s question from epochs earlier.

Crowley inhales deep. “Forever, angel.” A deep exhale. “Since we met. You gave away that bloody sword… You delightful _moron_.”

“Since the… And you never—?”

“Oh, pot, kettle!”

“I know, I _know_ , it’s just.” Aziraphale swallows thickly against Crowley’s temple. “They were _watching_ , you know. Every little thing.”

“I know.”

“But.” Aziraphale’s gay little heart does a somersault in her chest. “ _But_.”

“Mmm?”

“No one is watching, now.”

“ _Mmm_ , correct.”

“And we have.” She swallows again. “Well, we have…” 

Fear takes the words away, suddenly. Doubt creeps in.

Crowley detangles herself enough to lean back to gaze up at Aziraphale, slitted eyes wide and round and _worshipful_. “You have me as long as you want me, angel.” It’s a whisper.

The fear dissolves into a wave of lush, crushing warmth.

“Oh, darling.” Aziraphale presses a kiss to her lover’s hairline, eyes welling. “I could never _stop_.”

Crowley’s tears flood her cheeks almost immediately. “Then we have forever,” she replies.

“Forever?” Aziraphale’s smile winks past the tears. Crowley kisses it.

“Oh, yes. Til the end of the Universe, angel.”


End file.
